


The Tattler

by Chimie_Chat



Category: Justice League - All Media Types, Shazam! | Captain Marvel (Comics), Super Sons (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Gen, football star Billy, school reporter Jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:55:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23336506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chimie_Chat/pseuds/Chimie_Chat
Summary: Written for LooneyFrechie:Jon is a reporter for the Tattler, the school newspaper of Metropolis University. He's sent to cover the football team's preparations for the homecoming game, when he has a very unfortunate introduction to the teams star quarterback.
Relationships: Billy Batson/Jonathan Samuel Kent
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	The Tattler

**Author's Note:**

> This work was written based on a prompt given by LooneyFrechie. The idea for the fic belongs to them, I just supply the words.

Loose bricks shifted underfoot as Jon made his way down the Path – named as such for being the main pathway cutting through campus – dodging bicycles that blew way too quickly downhill, and idiotic college students who were paying too much attention to their Airpods to care about where they were walking. Now, was Jonathan Samuel Kent any different? Of course he was. For starters, he didn't own Airpods. He used corded earbuds like a normal person. Second, he was actually watching his surroundings so he didn't run into a light post or something. 

Where was he going at two forty-two on a Friday afternoon? Perhaps, class? Pfffffft. Absolutely _not_. Not to say that he was skipping class… He paid way too much tuition money to do that. Lord, the guilt alone would kill him. No, this boy was making his way towards the stadium, located on the other side of Metropolis University’s campus, passed the dorms and the dust bowl parking lots, and across that poorly paved road that cut through the college grounds. 

Why was he going?

Was he an athlete? 

Was he on the football team?

Mayhaps, on the men’s lacrosse team? It was undefeated since 1862? ー See, the joke here is that MU has never had a men’s lacrosse team. Since there was no team, they physically could not lose any games because they… well they couldn’t play any. 

Regardless, Jon wasn’t heading in this direction because he had an active interest in sports, or was otherwise affiliated with any of his school’s teams. No, he was meandering over yonder on behalf of the Tattler, Metropolis University’s very own school newspaper. You see folks, even though Jon was nineteen, tightrope walking along the cusp of twenty years old, he still had absolutely no idea what he wanted to do with his life. While he was very adamant that this wasn’t a problem ー who _actually_ knows what they want to do for the text fifty years, anyways? ー it did leave his college life rather listless. Here he was, majoring in undecided, and no real drive to do anything in particular. So why the school newspaper? Well… His parents were reporters after all. Maybe it would spark some kind of interest?

It didn’t.

This brings us back to this stupid stadium he was now approaching. The blue and red gate was pushed open, held in place by a large cinder block. Parked in front of the stadium was a bronze statue of their mascot, a massive bayhawk with wings outstretched. While the bird was primarily as dingey as a russet potato, the beak and talons shined a bright gold from countless students rubbing the fowl for good luck.

The stadium itself was… Ok so there was one word for it; G-R-O-S-S. Even though it had probably been swept at least once within the past millennium, you certainly could not tell. Especially once you passed the threshold of the gate, and made it into the actual hallway itself. The cement floor was littered in small bits of trash that had been pushed into corners, most candy wrappers and single-use water bottles with the labels ripped off ー not a single one of these contained actual water during game nights. I’ll let you fill in the blanks ー and a rainbow of chewed gum was flattened to just about every surface. Then there was the smell of it all. What was it about stadiums that generally just smelled like feet?

Oh well. It wasn’t his job to judge the building. Alas, he did not work for the Onion, and this was not a satirical article that he was meant to be writing.

Hm?

What’s that?

I never actually told you guys what his assignment was? That can’t be rightー Oh… Well I’ll be damned… Sorry about that.

Since the fall semester was finally in full swing, homecoming season was upon us! For those who don’t know, homecoming season was a wackadoodle time of the academic year that was only important to student athletes. It included kickoff games for every fall season sport, with a major campus focus on the football team. Jon was here to interview some of the players about the upcoming game, how they felt about this season, _et cetera_ , _et cetera_. 

As Jon made it into the stands, looking out on the massive football field from two hundred rows of seats away, he pulled his backpack off of his shoulder to fish out his Tattler ID, and the notebook he’d brought with him ー Lord he really did feel like his parents ー With that, he started making his way down the cement staircase. Down below, you know, on the field, the entire football team was doing whatever-the-heck they do. Football, I suppose. Some were in gear, practicing tackles against dummies being held up by teammates. Others were practicing throws, running drills, and what looked like… stretching? Maybe?

Anyways, they were being athletic. 

“I can probably go onto the field…” Jon muttered to himself as he approached the front row. Just to the left of him was another staircase that led down to the sidelines. He looked around. No one seemed to be acknowledging his existence… Not that he’d made himself known. He took out his notebook, scribbling out thoughts and observations, occasionally glancing back up at the field. Simply put, he was simultaneously paying super duper _uber_ close attention to his surroundings aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand not at all.

“The ball fliesー no, the ball _soars_ ー no that’s not right.” He scribbled out the sentence. How the frick frack hacky-sack did his parents do this? Did they each have a mental link Thesaurus.com? “The quarterback draws his arm in preparation for the first throw, pausing to survey the arena beforeー” God he was so bad at this. How the hell are you supposed to write about someone throwing a hecking ball? It wasn’t even really a ball! It was a weird… long… pointy… hand, egg, thing. A long, pointy, hand egg that was _coming right towards him OH FU_ ー 

Regardless of the shape of the pigskin, it sure as _hell_ hurt when it collided with your _freaking skull_ . The stitches along the side of the oval smacked Jon right in the forehead, not only catching the nineteen year old completely off guard, but also knocking him completely off balance. To say he collapsed to the floor was an understatement. This boy. Ate. _Shit._

His left foot slipped out from underneath him, causing him to crash down to the cement steps, his hip smacking against it, before he skidded down twoー make that _three_ steps to the railing. 

………………………………………………………………………………….ow

“Heads up!” A voice called out, quickly followed by a wince. _Thanks_ for that. Real helpful. Whoever the hell the random oh-so-helpful guy was, he approached the portion of the stands Jon was now decrepitly sprawled across. The platform was a few feet up, the concrete reaching up to the dude’s chest height, with the metal railing continuing high above his head. “Shit, man. My b.”

Yeah. Like _that_ was really gonna help. Jon groaned as he sat up. He didn’t know if he wanted to rub his head, or his butt, both hurt. Unfortunately, our sophomore reporter was far too polite to give this guy a piece of his mind, even though he really wanted to. “It’s fine. Didn’t realize I was standing on the field.” Maybe sarcasm would work?

“Ha! Yeah, man. Didn’t ya hear? The stands are the new endzone.” Oh great. A wise guy. “So you good?”

Alright, time to flash this guy some kind of glare. Jon tried to channel whatever angry vibes he could into a cold stare, but when he looked up he felt all anger slip from his face entirely… Oh that is _so_ not fair. When Jon looked up, he’d expected to see some douchebag looking, two hundred-odd pound, behemoth of a frat boy ー you know, the type that drinks Natty Lite instead of water, and shouts ‘if it’s clear it’s beer’ every time they piss in a bush ー instead fate, the bitch herself, led him face to face with not _a_ jock, but _the_ jock. 

Billy Batson. Hm? Name doesn’t ring a bell? Well frick mate, you’re clearly not from around here. Batson was the star quarterback at Metropolis U; made a starter his freshman year, now leading the team on the field even though he was still an underclassman. Six foot two and very well tanned ー maybe he was born with it, maybe it’s Maybelline ー and all kinds of chiseled. 

“Hey dude, lemme help you out.” Thick arms reached up, grabbing onto the railing before the man hoisted himself up, easily throwing his body over the edge, landing on his knees just a little ways off from Jon. 

“I’m fine.” The nineteen year old muttered, restraining a wince as he reached for his things, which had been thoroughly scattered about the area. “Nothing’s broken… Probably.”

“Oh dope!” Batson had a thick laugh, the kind that sounded like a dog barking, and usually came with a little spit. "Man, I totally didn't even see you there. Like, my bad."

"Uh huh." Jon rolled his eyes as he picked up he pulled his backpack closer, sitting criss-crossed as he searched the pockets for a new pen; his had disappeared completely. 

"Didn't even think I threw that hard, ya know?" The quarterback snatched the offending football off the ground and squeezed it between his hands, tossing it up one, twice, before tucking it under his armpit. "But like, you're not supposed to be here anyways. Practices are closed."

"Wha—" His mouth hung open in disbelief. "I'm sorry, are you telling me that getting hit by your flyball is _my_ fault?"

“Nah, fam. I’m just sayin you really popped up out of nowhere.” Billy waved his hands in front of his face in defence. “‘Sides. Stands are closed during practices. You’re not supposed to be here.”

This… Moron? Did he really think Jon had just waltzed on in here with nothing better to do than get _hit by flying inanimate objects?_ In an effort to try and explain himself ー though why he had to was beyond him ー Jon pulled out his notebook and pen. Just as he was getting ready to explain that he was with the Tattler, and had every permission to be where he was, Batson surprised him yet again.

“Oh! You wanted an autograph!” What the actual frick? “Well you shou;ld have just said so!” Billy reached forward and swiped the pad, and pulled a sharpie out of the side pocket on Jon’s backpack, before scribbling out an ugly signature. “You know, normally I only do this after games. But I feel kinda bad since I hit you and stuff. There you go.”

“You…” Jon… was… _baffled_. Jesus ever-loving Christ what the hay bale was wrong with this guy? “Give that back!” He snatched the journal away. “I’m not here for a stupid autograph, I’m here for a stupid interview.”

“Interview?” The befuddlement was evident on the twenty year old’s face, before realization must have hit him. He snapped his fingers together. “Oh! Right. Coach mentioned someone was coming by for that. You want an exclusive? Cause you can totally have one.”

Jon made like he was packing his things up. “On the other hand, I think I’ll go find the soccer team instead.” 

“Whaー No way! I’m totally better than them!”

“I hear the school orchestra has been sounding phenomenal ever since they added a harp.” He rolled his eyes. Was he actually going to leave? Nah. He couldn’t afford to without his editor getting on his ass ー lord is this how his parents felt? ー he was just gathering his stuff, before pushing up off the ground and dusting his pants off with his hands.

“No wait.” Billy reached up and grabbed Jon by the wrist. “Come on, man I’m totally cooler than them. Don’t do my team dirty like that. I’ll even get you in on the locker room talk if you want.”

Our little reporter hummed, taking hold of his pen and using the back of it to scratch at his temples, as if he were seriously contemplating leaving. “I su _ppose_ I could stay… If I can ask whatever I want.”

Billy nodded instantly. The poor soul. He was probably just way too headstrong, absolutely blindsided by the possibility of getting his three paragraphs of fame in a college newspaper to even consider what he was agreeing to.

“Completely on the record?” Jon gave a slight smile.

“Uh… Yeah. Sure. We can go with that.”

Jon smirked. Damn his mother would be proud. He leaned against the same railing that had failed to catch him earlier when he tumbled. “Well then, Mr. William Batson, let’s start with that origin story of yours.”


End file.
